The lower levels of the building housed the workshops of the ville, looms to make clothing from dog hair, a potter’s kiln and wood shop to make spoons, combs and other useful items. The first floor was the barracks of the sec men, and the top floor the private rooms of the baron and his family. The windows were boarded shut with thick planks, inside and outside. There was no way for a mercie to sneak in for a night-creep without using the stairs and going past a score of armed guards. So far, three assassins had tried, and each failed miserably.
In the middle of the baron’s floor was a spacious ballroom decorated with velvet wallpaper and large mirrors, which made the room seem even bigger than it truly was. Clusters of alcohol lanterns hung from the ceiling above a huge circular banquet table that filled most of the balkoom, yet the center of the round table was wide open, leaving enough space for a dozen people to dance without bumping the wood and rattling dishes.
Drinking and talking, the baron and senior sec men of Green Cove ville were discussing battle plans while lunch was being served by a bevy of young, half-naked, serving girls, their budding breasts scarred from splattering grease. As the servants brought heaping platters to the table, the two barons would fondle each in turn and discuss her merits with cruel exactness. Trying not to cry from the pain of the pinches, the girls would smile in return and thank the men for the compliments.
Standing in the corner where he could keep a watch on everything was the sec chief, Seaton Crane. The bony man was sitting in an armless chair, with his back to the stone wall, an oversized blaster resting in his lap. Henderson knew that with a word from the baron, he would be shot dead on the spot. Oddly, the danger excited him and found little urge to sneak a dose of the jolt hidden up his ass. Maybe this was what he had been needing all those decades, a sense of danger to keep up his interest. How amusing that would be to discover at this stage of life.
The two barons were seated near each other for the sake of conversation, DuQuene with armed guards standing behind his chair and seated on either side. Henderson had the same, but his entourage seemed oddly uninterested in the meal and merely watched the visitor very closely. Henderson accepted the scrutiny as a logical precaution. In similar circumstances, he would have placed the visitor in chains. Their mistake.
Henderson felt uncomfortable in his freshly washed clothes, his hair still damp and soapy from a hot bath. But this wasn’t his ville yet, and he needed to get on the good side of the local baron as quickly as possible. People put such stock into bathing. It was ridiculous. Animals didn’t bath, why should humans?
The food was barely adequate by his standards, but there was plenty and it was decently hot. There was the expected communal bowl of stew, a mainstay in any ville, and the meat tasted more like squirrel than rat or dog. That was a pleasant change. However, there were also several heaping platters of fried fish, with the heads still attached, some local crap about it improving the flavor. It was repugnant. They washed, but ate fish heads. Where was the logic in that?
Loaves of fresh acorn bread lay on wooden boards to keep the heat, along with small dishes of honey, but no butter. Henderson knew the ville had goats. Why weren’t the servants milking the animals? Didn’t they know how? It was pathetic. These people desperately needed him to take over. The only thing he liked about the banquet hall was the three skulls on the table for decorations. Those would stay.
Scattered about the circle of wood were small bowls of salt, but none of pepper. Pity. Uncaring of the layer of hot grease, the sec men used bare hands to take servings of fried corn-mush cakes. Henderson took a small one and fed it to one of the many dogs laying under the table, probably for just such a reason. The single bright note was a heaping bowl full of stewed dandelion leaves. Merely being polite, he tried a leaf and was stunned to discover the weeds were delicious. There was water and green beer to drink, barely fermented and tasting strongly of wheat. Didn’t these idiots know how to plant rye? Probably not.